


In the Lowest Deep, a Lower Deep

by barbaricyawp



Series: In Hell I'll Be in Good Company [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, Humiliation, M/M, Object Insertion, Torture, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-08
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-27 17:36:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16223999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbaricyawp/pseuds/barbaricyawp
Summary: The darker version of chapter four from "Myself Am Hell."Rumlow ties Steve and the Winter Soldier together. HYDRA trash.





	In the Lowest Deep, a Lower Deep

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter bears many similarities to the one I posted in "Myself Am Hell." It's just much, much darker. Enjoy!

The year is inconsequential, and the asset is being tied to the chair. Commander Rumlow has positioned two chairs back to back. He binds the asset backwards to the chair, so that it is straddling the back.

Captain Rogers is tied to the other chair, facing the asset. He’s out cold with a burlap sack tied over his head, but the asset knows that this man is Captain Rogers. He smells like Captain Rogers, a scent that the asset is coming to enjoy.

Rumlow binds their bodies together. He winds a rope around their calves so that their legs are pressed together from knee to ankle. He ties their wrists together, left to right and left to right.

The only difference in their positions is this: Captain Rogers is full seated on his chair. The asset is tied with its buttocks on the very edge of the seat.

Another difference: Captain Rogers is fully clothed. The asset is perfectly naked.

The room is cold and the asset trembles a bit. Goose flesh rises over its arms and thighs, except for where Rogers’ skin meets its skin. The asset isn’t supposed to, but it leans into this touch a bit. An innocuous touch such as this is hard to come by in HYDRA possession.

“I think we’re ready to go,” the commander announces, startling the asset. “Oh, shh hush. I’ll be good to you today.”

Last time the commander was “good” to the asset, he carved his initials in its cheek.

“Besides,” the commander continues, “We have a visitor today.”

Commander Rumlow pours a bottle of water over the sack covering Captain Rogers’ head. The water soaks through and the captain jolts up, struggling to breathe against the wet fabric.

The commander laughs and yanks the bag off his head, still cackling. Rogers shakes his head, eyes focusing on the bindings and then chair. His eyes lift up to the asset, widening in horrified realization.

The asset gives him a weak smile, on the verge of a grimace. Rogers smiles back, and that feels pretty good.

“Good morning, Cap,” Rumlow booms. “How’d you sleep?”

Rogers scans over their tied bodies and looks back to Rumlow. “Weird beds you got here, Rumlow.”

The commander chuckles at this and goes to retrieve a cart from the corner of the room. On it, the asset recognizes an assortment of their favorite disciplinary tools. A cat o’ nine tails. A wooden meter stick. A glass wine bottle. A riding crop with industrial staples punched through. A baseball bat.

Rogers groans. “For me? You shouldn’t have…”

“I didn’t,” Rumlow snaps. “These are for the Winter Soldier.” He lays a hand on the asset’s back and it twitches under his touch, already anticipating what will happen next. “But don’t worry. I won’t leave you out; you get to decide what we use.”

Rogers looks over the instruments. Water from the burlap sack drips down his face, making tracks in the grime on his skin.

“You really wanna risk not choosing, Rogers?”

“The ruler,” Rogers says immediately. “Just…the ruler.”

“Good pick, Rogers.”

Rumlow takes up the meter stick and swats it against the asset’s thighs. It stings but doesn’t hurt. Next, he smacks it against the asset’s cheek, more embarrassing than painful.

“Got yourself a nice blush going there, Soldier.” He holds the stick before the asset’s mouth. “Hold this for me, would you?”

The asset opens its mouth and bites down on the grit of the wood. This is a kindness from Rumlow, even if its angled to tease Rogers; the asset likes to have something to bite down on when it’s in pain.

“My turn to pick,” Rumlow says, rubbing his palms together. He takes up the cat o’ nine tails. The asset can already feel its heart racing, its muscles clenching at the memory of what that whip can do. “How old are you now, Rogers? A hundred?”

He snaps the whip over the asset’s back three times in quick succession. “Count ‘em, Soldier.”

“Three, sir,” the asset answers immediately, muffled around the ruler between its teeth. It knows better than to wait for the next hit.

“Told you he was a good boy,” Rumlow tells Steve, stroking his fingers through the asset’s hair.

He strikes the asset over its shoulders, back, and thighs. By the time they hit thirty, the asset can feel blood weeping from the cuts. It can also feel the cuts healing over and breaking open again.

“Why don’t you let me have a turn with that?” Rogers suggests, but he isn’t looking at Rumlow. He’s looking at the asset, expression tight. The asset smiles at him again, since that seemed to soothe him last time. But Rogers just winces.

“I don’t think so. But I’ll tell you what, Rogers,” he cracks the whip especially hard at his name. “I’ll finish fifty now and do the rest after your turn to pick.”

Rogers absolutely should not take him up on the deal, and the asset wants to inform him as much. But it doesn’t; it knows better.

Rogers eyes the devices: the bottle, the riding crop, the baseball bat. “Are you gonna break that bottle?” He looks back to the asset, checking its expression. All he’ll find there is blank acceptance.

“Nope. Scout’s honor.”

Though Rogers narrows his eyes, he nods slowly. His fists are balled up tight against the asset’s hands. “Alright, then. The bottle.”

What a damn moron.

Rumlow picks up the bottle, feeling the weight of it in his hand. “See, this is what I like about you, Rogers.” He rubs his thumb over the neck of it. It’s about as wide as two of his fingers at the neck, then swells up to the size of his forearm. “Even after everything we’ve done to you two, you’re still trusting.”

The asset watches Steve’s face change, the realization of a mistake dawning on him and dragging down his features. The asset closes his eyes; it’s too much to witness.

The commander is kind enough to slick the bottle with Vaseline before pressing the head at the asset’s entrance, but he can’t be bothered to stretch it before.

The neck isn’t so bad going in, but the bottle gains girth quickly and it isn’t long before the asset can’t breathe. It’s going to split the asset apart, but Rumlow keeps pushing, using the heel of his hand to press it deeper. Miraculously, the asset takes the whole thing.

Rumlow pats his hands together, as if clapping off dust. “There we go. My turn again.”

“Rumlow,” the captain says, voice hoarse and strangled out of his throat. “Please. Let me take it.”

“Moving,” Rumlow comments and brings down the whip onto the asset’s backside. “But no.”

“Fifty-one,” the asset says. Drool runs from its mouth, soaking the wood of the ruler. The asset can’t help it. It leaks.

Rumlow brings it down again, harder. The ends of the tails flick the base of the bottle, sending vibrations up the glass. The assets thighs are trembling against Rogers’, clamping down against the back of the chair. Its whole range of sensation has narrowed down to this point of its body, this unbearable fullness.

Rogers fingers spread and intertwine with the asset’s. It takes the asset a moment to recognize the gesture, but they’re holding hands. Rogers is holding his hand.

Once it understands what’s going on, the asset squeezes down instantly. It opens the fingers of its metal hand, inviting Rogers into the gaps. Most of the agents here are too terrified to even touch the asset’s arm, but Rogers holds onto its hand like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” Rumlow reminds the asset, pausing between strikes of the cat o nine. “Don’t want you passing out on us and missing the fun.”

He hails down the next strike right over the asset’s spine. “Ninety,” the asset exhales, obediently gulping down its next breath.

“It did that once when we were testing its pain threshold,” Rumlow tells Rogers. “Just blacked out cold.”

Strikes ninety-one and ninety-two land in the same place, but Rumlow is right. Breathing helps. It helps a lot. Just not as much as holding the captain’s hands.

“We got it up and running within a few minutes, but it wasn’t right after that. Not until we wiped it anyway.”

Rogers’ face is stony still, not revealing any real emotion. But his hands clench down around the asset’s. The asset squeezes his fingers twice, and Rogers’ attention is back on him.

The asset counts five more lashes. Its tongue is getting heavy. It can’t believe that there’s any skin left on its back to break, but Rumlow finds patches of it along its ribcage, against the soft part of its stomach.

“One hundred,” it gasps finally, entire body slumping against the back of the chair, against Rogers.

Rumlow taps the bottom of the bottle, which has moved out of the asset a few inches. “Looks like you’re not enjoying Rogers’ choice, are you?”

The look on Rogers’ face makes the asset bite its tongue.

Rumlow knocks on the base of the bottle. “Knock knock, hello? Did you like his choice or not?”

“I didn’t like it,” the asset admits, eyes dropping away from Rogers’. Rogers’ fingers slip from its, loosening his hold. They’re breaking him. It’s a good thing, the asset knows, that’s the point of all this.

It doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like falling apart together.

“Would you rather have the bottle or my—”

“Your cock,” the asset interrupts. “Please, Commander, your—”

Rumlow yanks the bottle all out at once and the asset flinches at the suction such sudden movement creates. “I like your gumption, but don’t interrupt me. You’ll get what’s coming to you.”

The asset finds it’s easier to focus on Rogers’ face than wait for the inevitable. When Rumlow pushes in, it squeezes down on Rogers’ fingers. It’s so stretched out that Rumlow has no problem getting in, but the friction against its abused skin is agony. It sobs.

Rumlow shoves into the asset, leaning his weight on its battered back. The asset is trembling, each muscle on the edge of failure, and the tremors rattle the chairs.

“Hey,” Rogers says softly. “I’m going to get you out of this.”

The asset closes its eyes. That sounds nice. It hadn’t even considered there might be a place for the asset away from here.

“We’ll go someplace nice, with a view. Some place warm.”

The asset loathes the cold. How does Rogers know that?

“I’ll get us out of this,” Rogers says, “I promise.”

The asset presses its forehead against Rogers’ and feels somehow that this is a victory. “Thank you,” it whispers.

It has no reason to, but it believes him. Captain Rogers will get them out of this.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I'm like this, either.


End file.
